I wouldn't mind being Hecate. She's the dominant cat and never gets beaten up. She's beautiful, strong, surprisingly graceful and athletic, incredibly limber. Oh, yeah, and she gets to sleep for about eighteen to twenty hours a day.
It's that time again. What time, you ask? It's that time when I psych myself up for the coming week. Work's not bad. No, it's not that. It's the alarm clock. It's waking up at 5:30 a.m. (or worse, waking up about 4:30 a.m. and not being able to get back to sleep because I know I have to get up in an hour). The problem for my brain is waking up at 5:30 a.m. and not being allowed to roll over and go back to sleep. The problem is feeling like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz when I first awake and try to move my body. The situation's made worse by our bed now just being a mattress on the floor.
A small segue: Miranda says to me today, "Mom, when it's time to get new living room furniture, I think we should just get nice lawn furniture." My response, "I think that is a perfectly dreadful idea. No offense. Great idea for you when you are in college, but your dad and I are at an age where we want real furniture and this next time it's going to be nice." By nice, I mean not ugly, but very sturdy and well-made. Along with that living room furniture is a pressing need for a bed frame. We had one once upon a time, along with a box spring. Anyone who believes the claim that those mattress sets are good for 20 years is an idiot or is sleeping on a hammock or somebody's couch. Four years, folks. The frame broke after one year, the box spring the following year, and here we are, a middle aged couple struggling to get vertical from our mattress on the floor. I like to think that it's helping to keep us young. Reminds me of college. However, our bodies were a little more cooperative back then.
Nevertheless, I spend my week counting down the days until I get to sleep in, past 5:30 a.m., nestled amongst the pillows on my mattress on the floor.
Saturday, we just made it to about 6:20 a.m. when Sam was dressed and running out the door. Mick dressed and followed. Segue #2: That child of ours is making us lose our minds. We cannot agree on the sequence of events. Did she or didn't she leave the house yesterday morning? We are now so rattled, so rummy, so stressed to the point of over-load that we HAVEN'T GOT A CLUE! Anyway, I got up too early, got dressed too early, and from that point on I haven't any idea what happened on Saturday. Mick either, though he might claim to. Yes, dear, I know she took off after Frank got here and that you followed on foot, called on the cell, and I drove over and picked you two up. But our brains are missing several hours. If we drank, this would be called a black-out.
I remember what happened when Sam took off in the afternoon, after brother-in-law Frank arrived. I remember because I tried to take a walk with Sam and she totally rejected me. I repeat, TOTALLY REJECTED ME! She said, "Mom, the door. Mom, the door!...Dad, take walk." That stings.
Sunday morning. Frank had spent the night so he gets Sam's room when he's here. That's because he's in worse shape than the Tin Man and Sam's is the only bed off the floor. It is also conveniently located close to the bathroom. In Frank's world, the less he has to walk, the better.
This was fine with Sam because she gets to sleep in Miranda's room which is now wall-to-wall mattresses on the floor. Two doubles, about twenty pillows and an equal amount of blankets and comforters. A real nest. Sam just takes her jack-o-lantern/ night-light and Bunny-frog and then she's content. Maybe even deliriously happy.
Back to Sunday morning. Frank wakes up ridiculously early, because he always does, gets up and gets dressed, makes himself some coffee, and goes outside to smoke a cigarette and LOCKS HIMSELF OUT OF THE HOUSE.
There are three outside doors to this house, and we only lock the front one. Stupid, yes, but oh well. In the case of Frank locking himself out, you'd think two other doors that are never locked would come in handy. Maybe he panicked and thought he'd be locked out for hours. I don't know. But that man rang the door bell and rang it and rang it and rang it...ring, ring, ring ring ringringringringringirgnringringring!!!
ENOUGH ALREADY!
Mick went running stark naked to let his brother in the door. He returned for his bathrobe and then Frank had company for the rest of the ridiculously early morning.
I lay there with my heart pounding and the adrenaline pumping for nearly a half hour before my body settled down and drifted back to sleep. Oh, my was that an unpleasant sensation. But then I drifted. I sank into a heavy-limbed slumber. I had dreams. Don't worry, not going to bore you with those this time. People, I slept in until 8:00 a.m. I repeat 8:00 a.m.!
And that is what I live for. That is what propels me through my week. I live to read for pleasure for forty minutes at night, and to be able to sleep in and dream on the weekend. I scour a house, make doctor appointments, dodge blows and flying food and a bit of drool, wipe up poop, and basically just go, go, go, all week long with visions of my mattress on the floor, with my seven pillows and egyptian cotton sheets and comforter waiting for me. Yes, visions of my children, my husband, and our pets play a role, too. They are my motivators. But when people say, "you need to take time for yourself, pamper yourself" then it is my bed that I visualize and long for.
So, it's that time again. Sunday night. Five-thirty will arrive too soon. Five days to go...
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